Skinny Love
by EspressoShot
Summary: If you're being honest with yourself, you've thought about him a lot in the past few years. But now that he's in your life, you don't know what to think of him.
1. Chapter 1

_Come on, skinny love,  
__Just last the year.  
__Pour a little salt  
__We were never here._

* * *

_Prologue_

_Randy_

You knew that it was unnatural, and from the time you were eleven onward, you told yourself that you weren't really feeling anything. Bob was your best friend. You were confusing feelings of love and physical attraction with feelings of close friendship. That was all. You could love a girl in the way you were supposed to. And you could love a guy, like Bob, as a best friend. It was no different than the way you loved family. Both feelings were normal, and you just had to carve the distinction between the two into your mind. For a while, you thought that everybody did.

You told yourself that you'd start feeling something when you looked at skin mags. You took out girls, and you engaged in the talk about what you'd done and with which chick. When you and your buddies went to see _Goldfinger_, you pretended that Honor Blackman got you hard, when really it was Sean Connery who turned you on.

And then everything shattered. Bob was murdered. His girl was basically widowed, and so were you. When you called _him_ into your car at the Tastee Freez, _he_ made you realize something, even though _he_ didn't mean to. Then, when it was all over, you went to see _him_ while _he_ was still hurt bad. It hit you like a ton of bricks. When _his _brothers left the two of you alone and _he_ was fast asleep, you gently kissed_ his_ forehead. Your lips felt warm and tingly for the next week.

You pretended that you were enjoying being single, and during the remainder of your junior year and the whole of your senior year, you slowly pulled away from your parents. By the time you started college, you were living in the hippie house full-time, and you hardly ever saw your family. Your old friends were long gone and forgotten.

You picked up one guy. Or rather, he picked you up. He was from Muskogee and a business major at Tulsa. He looked like Michael Nesmith, and you think he was looking for something serious. It would've been a good arrangement, but you weren't ready to come to terms with your feelings yet. You ran, and he let you go.

XXX

But now, a familiar face stares at you from the auditorium entrance. If you're being honest with yourself, you've thought of _him_ a lot since Bob died. But you tried your best to push those feelings away. You tried your best to ignore _him_ and not think about _him_. But you realize _he's _smiling and nodding at you, and you know it's a lost cause. Ponyboy Curtis sits down in the seat next to you, and your past hits you full force.

* * *

A/N: this is going to be pretty experimental, and in second POV. It's an extension on my oneshot "Diplomat's Son". I love reviews of all kinds :)

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders. Bon Iver (and NOT Birdy) owns Skinny Love.


	2. Chapter 2

_Skinny Love: The state in which two people are in love with each other, but they are too shy to admit it._

_S.E. Hinton owns. Hopefully she's not too offended with what I've done with her characters._

* * *

_Randy_

"Didn't expect to see a familiar face here," Ponyboy says.

You're hardly a familiar face. You saw him those two times a few years ago, and from then on, it was just in passing. You'd walk past each other in the halls at school, or you'd be in the library at the same time, but that was it. You haven't seen him at all for the past year. You were in your first year of college, he was in his last year of high school, and the two of you don't exactly share a friend group.

But he still calls you a familiar face. Maybe he's been thinking about you as much as you've been thinking about him. The idea makes butterflies form in your stomach, and you feel a blush starting to creep into your cheeks. When you really take a good look at him, you realize he's blushing, too.

"Me neither," you reply.

You don't know why you said it. You've had classes with your old friends, and you've seen people you knew from the country club around campus. You've seen plenty of familiar faces in the past year. It's not a surprise any more, and you know that you'll see plenty more.

But you weren't expecting to see _him_ and not _here_. Although, when you think about it, you guess it makes sense that he's here. All the different ages and all the different majors are forced into this math class in order to graduate. He seemed like an English or Art guy to you, but hell, maybe he's majoring in math. He could be majoring in biology, even. Hell, you hardly know the first thing about him.

One of the T.A.s shoves a stack of syllabi in your face, and you absently take one and pass the stack down. The professor appears in front of the huge class and starts rambling about stuff that's already stated in the syllabus. But you can hardly hear him over your pounding heart. You don't know why you can't seem to stop staring at Ponyboy; smiling and blushing like an idiot. And you don't know why he does the same thing.

The two of you leave the building together, and he takes out a pack of cigarettes as soon as you're outside. His hands are shaking, and it takes three tries before he finally gets the cigarette lit. You've never been into smoking, not cigarettes, anyway, but you're tempted to ask him if you can bum one. You need a distraction and something to do with your hands.

"Got anywhere else to be?" you finally manage to ask.

He shakes his head, drops his cigarette on the ground, and grinds it out with his shoe. "This was my last class of the day."

"You wanna get a drink?" you ask. It's only early afternoon, but you could use a drink, and something strong.

But as soon as the words leave your lips, you remember that he's quite a bit younger than you. "You got a fake? We can get coffee or somethin' if you don't."

"I got a fake," he replies. Even if he didn't, he looks like he could be eighteen. He looks older than you, even. "Where you wanna' go?"

XXX

You stir your whiskey sour, trying to melt the ice so that the taste of the liquor won't be as strong. He's drinking a glass of wine that's so dark it might as well be opaque. He doesn't even flinch as he drinks it, and part of you feels like a pansy. But then again, who the hell orders _fucking_ _wine_ at a bar? And especially not at a dive like Mr. B's. You finally can't stand the awkward silence and the cowboy waling that's playing on the jukebox any more. You take a deep breath and brace yourself.

"So how's things?" you ask.

He drains his glass, which was half-full, and shrugs. "It was as good as it could be for a while. Thought the universe was gonna' finally quit shittin' on us. But then the younger of my two older brothers, my favorite one, got drafted and went to Vietnam. Six months in, and he just … disappeared. Army says we should assume he's dead. We had a memorial for him and everything. But I don't buy it; he's out there somewhere. I had a scholarship to State, but I stayed behind 'cause of him. I've gotta' be here when he gets back."

The waitress sets another glass of wine down in front of him, and he takes a big gulp. Again, you're amazed at how he doesn't flinch.

"How're you?" he asks.

_Losing Bob was like losing part of my soul. My heart is broken. Thanks for asking. _You want to reply. But you don't mention it. It was his best friend who killed him, and you're sure he's felt the emptiness and dull aches that you've felt, too. You run several replies through your head before you finally settle on one.

"Been better. Been worse."

He snorts and finishes his second glass of wine. "Haven't we all?"

XXX

You're both still a bit tipsy when you drive him back to his house. You idle next to the curb, and the way he's looking at you makes you think he's going to kiss you. You hate that you're disappointed when he doesn't.

"See you Wednesday," he says.

You nod. "Yeah. Wednesday."

He's out the door in a flash, and you're still a bit fuzzy as you drive back to the hippie house.

Once you're home, you lock yourself in your room, turn a Kinks record up full blast, and think about what it would be like to be with _him_. Nobody is there, and it's not like anyone will ever know, but you're embarrassed at how quickly your toes go numb and the warm, tingly feeling takes over your body. You hate how _he_ can do this to you. And at the same time, you can't wait to see _him _the day after tomorrow.

* * *

There are a few similarities and a few differences between this fic and _Diplomat's Son._ But, for the most part, it's a more involved version of _Diplomat's Son._

How're y'all liking it? Can I get some reviews? :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Mind the POVs. They tend to change..._

* * *

_Ponyboy_

You take a deep breath, rest your shaking hands on the bathroom sink, and take a good, long look at yourself in the mirror. You've been locked in here, fussing over your looks, for the past hour. But you're still not happy. Your hair doesn't look quite right. Is that a zit on your cheek? Does this shirt make you look too skinny? Too fat?

You close your eyes and shake your head. "Christ, pull yourself together."

You've been a nervous wreck ever since he asked you to the poetry reading when class ended a few hours ago. You know you shouldn't be. Things went fine when you went out for drinks on Monday. He seemed fine in class on Wednesday. And he asked you out tonight, so you guess you're not blowing it.

You mentally kick yourself. No. _No_, he didn't _ask you out_. He just knows that you're into books and poetry and an English major like he is, so he asked you to come along to this poetry reading with him. You're just hanging out as friends. Just friends. That's all. He's into girls like normal guys. He's not sick in the head like you.

_Don't. Fuck. This. Up._ You firmly tell yourself. Put your feelings aside. He could be a good, lifelong friend, and this is just a stupid crush. You can't come on to him and scare him off.

But you could've sworn that you saw him staring at you and blushing a couple of times during class. And after he drove you home on Monday, God, you wanted to kiss him. And the way he looked at you, his lips parted and his eyebrow cocked, made you think that _maybe _he wanted to kiss you too.

A crash and swearing on the other side of the door snaps you out of your trance. You sigh and roll your eyes. But, hell, maybe this is a good thing. It's giving you something else to focus on.

You open the door and are greeted by Darry, plastered and barely able to stand, in the middle of the living room. A shattered bottle lies at his feet, and he looks like he's about to start bawling.

"You ok?" you ask.

He looks up at you, his eyes glassy, and starts to take a step forward. You run over and stop him before he slices his foot open.

"Whoa, Darry, stop! There's glass everywhere. You wanna get cut to ribbons?"

"Jus' wanna' drink," he slurs.

You sigh. "Think you've done enough of that. C'mon, Dar. Let's get you to bed."

He doesn't put up a fight this time, thankfully, and he leans heavily on you as you lead him to his room. You push him down onto the bed, and he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

You finish getting ready, clean up the broken glass, and then get him a glass of water and the plastic wastebasket from the bathroom. He stirs slightly when you pull the covers up to his shoulders.

"Soda?" he mumbles in his sleep.

It's like there's a vice around your heart, and your eyes tear up so bad that you can't see. But you close your eyes tight, take a few deep breaths, and pat Darry on the back.

"Not yet," you whisper. "But he's gonna' be home soon."

You take the truck keys off the nail by the door, crank it into gear, and back out of the narrow driveway. Once you're rolling down the street, you let yourself cry.

XXX

You pull into a parking space just down the block from the bookstore, wipe your eyes, and check your face in the rearview mirror. Your eyes are a little red, but other than that, you look fine. Hell, maybe Randy will just think you're high. You quickly smoke a cigarette as you walk down the street, toss it on the pavement, take a deep breath, and open the door.

The smell of coffee and patchouli almost knocks you over. You scan the room twice before you notice Randy sitting toward the back of the room. He waves at you, and you give him a nod. Your heart pounds faster with every step that you take toward him, and when you finally sit down next to him, you're sure that you'll pass out.

"Was startin' to think you weren't gonna' make it," Randy says.

You somehow manage to clear your head and catch your breath enough to reply, "just got caught up at home."

"Yeah? Things alright?" he asks. That's concern, a loving sort of concern, flickering in his eyes. You're sure of it.

You're about to reply, but a voice cuts you off. A guy on the makeshift stage set up in the front of the building is reading _Howl_, and you let yourself get caught up in it. At some point, somebody hands you a joint, and you take a few hits before you pass it off to a faceless person in the crowd.

The poems shift from Ginsberg to Kerouac, you're just the right amount of stoned, and you don't ever want it to end. But, all too soon, it does, and Randy's hand is suddenly on your shoulder.

"You good to drive?" he asks. "You wanna walk around for a while or somethin'?"

"I'm OK," you reply. There's nothing you want more than to walk around with Randy for a while, but you know that you need to check up on Darry.

Randy looks disappointed. You _know_ that's disappointment. But he nods and says, "I had a bit too much. I'll walk you to your car."

XXX

You lean against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette. Randy holds the cigarette you gave him, looking like he's unsure of what he's supposed to do with it. Or maybe he's just unsure in general. Unsure of you, unsure of this, unsure of what to do and where to go next. Hell, you feel the same way. The two of you have been silent since you got to the car, but you've been trying to talk to him telepathically, silently begging him to make a move and make this awkwardness go away. Just say or do _something_, Randy. Even making an offhand comment or joke about hating fags would be something. At least then you'd know that you're reading too much into this.

But he doesn't do anything. He just drops his cigarette and watches it until the last of the embers die out, and then looks up at you.

"I should get goin'," he says. "Gotta get up early tomorrow and do homework."

You nod. "Yeah, me too."

"So… I'll see you Monday?"

"Too early to start cuttin' class. I'll be there."

Randy snickers. And then there's silence. The two of you just stare at each other, eyes locked, lips parted, and you're mentally screaming at him to do something. _Kiss me, dammit! Just kiss me!_

But, again, he doesn't. He just blinks a couple of times, like he's trying to wake up, and says, "see you Monday, then."

"Yeah. Monday."

He turns around and starts walking down the street. You sigh heavily, walk around to the driver's side, and get in the truck. You run a stop sign on the way home because you're daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss him, but there weren't any cops around to catch you.

XXX

You check on Darry. He's puked at least once, and the water is gone, but he's still breathing. You'll call this one a win. You dump out the wastebasket and bring him some more water, and then you start to head to bed yourself. But something stops you.

You undress, and instead of going to your own room, you crawl into bed next to Darry. His soft snoring is reassuring, and you let your eyes fall closed. But there's still something eating at you.

"What would you think of me if you knew, Dar?" you whisper. "What would Sodapop think? What would mom and dad have thought?"

Darry just shifts a little and sighs softly in his sleep. You know what he would've said if he heard you, what Sodapop and your parents would've thought. You're sick, a disgrace, and you should be locked up somewhere with all the other crazies.

But you can't stop thinking about Randy. What would it be like to kiss him? To touch him? To fall asleep in his arms and then wake up next to him in the morning?

You know that you shouldn't be thinking about this. It'll never happen; not in a million years. But those thoughts still fill your head as you drift off to sleep, and you dream very sweet dreams.

* * *

Leave me a review? :)


	4. Chapter 4

_Randy just won't shut up..._

* * *

_Randy_

Now that it's late September, you're able to realize that you're in a vastly different place than you were in early August. In a way, it scares you shitless. But, in a way, you can't remember the last time you were so happy, so content.

Ponyboy Curtis, the former greaser, the guy you and your friends tried to drown in the fountain, the one who's best buddy killed Bob, has somehow become your best friend. You can admit it to yourself now.

Since Bob passed, you've been afraid to get too close to anybody. You couldn't handle losing another person, and as soon as you sensed somebody getting close, you started pushing them away. You even held the people in the hippie house at arm's length.

But now _he's _in your life. It's been three long years since you let somebody get this close to you. You've _missed_ this, and you've _needed_ this companionship, but a vocal part of your subconscious was always too afraid. But there's something different about Pony. That dark part of your mind screams as loud as ever that he can't stay, but this time, you're able to shut the negative out. He makes you happy, and you deserve to be happy.

He's become something of a fixture in the hippie house. He comes home with you after class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesday and Thursday and on weekends, he almost always finds his way over there sometime in the early evening. He gets high with the rest of you, talks about Jack Kerouac and Bob Dylan and how he wants to go to San Francisco, and lies on the floor listening to records and playing the air guitar.

But your favorite times are when it's just the two of you. You sit on one of the raggedy couches in the living room, or lie on a blanket in the backyard, or even sit uncomfortably on your bed, and you just _are_. You enjoy each others' company. Sometimes you talk about books. Sometimes you talk about poetry or music. Sometimes you talk about politics. And, one drunken night, you shared heartfelt confessions about what happened all those years ago. You had more to feel sorry for than he did, but he _forgave_ you. He forgave everyone. It's water under the bridge to him now. The two of you are totally different people now, and your new selves mesh perfectly.

You were close with Bob. You were _damn_ close with Bob. He was your best buddy from the fifth grade until he was murdered. But you think that, even though you've only _really _known him for a little over a month, Ponyboy Curtis is the best friend you've ever had. You connect with him in a way that you didn't with Bob. You feel like you can tell Pony anything. Hell, sometimes you feel like you share a brain with him. You couldn't have talked to Bob about how you want your own version of _Walden_, or how _A Brave New World_ freaked you out so much that you didn't sleep well for a week. You couldn't have told him about how seeing the Grand Canyon when you were ten changed your entire outlook on life; or how you haven't really trusted your parents since you were a kid, and you found out your dog didn't really go to live on a farm in the country. Bob would've just looked at you like you grew a second head, called you a homo, and made you do a shot. All of your old friends would have. But you _can_ tell Ponyboy about these things. And he fucking _understands._

Fucking hell. Your mind is in a million different places. You've never felt anything like this before. This isn't just an issue of carving the distinction between close friend or family love, and the romantic love that you're supposed to feel for a girl. This is _love_. This is real life love. This is both kinds of love, together, mixed into one person. And, unfortunately for you, the person you're _certain _that you've found true love in is another guy.

And there's still that lingering thought in the back of your mind. You'll catch him looking at you a certain way, or his hand will almost touch yours when you're sitting on your bed, and you can't help wondering. Is he like you? Does he feel the same way? If you tried to hold his hand, or hug him close to you, or kiss him, would he object? As fucked-up as it is, would he say yes to being your guy?

XXX

He absently pokes at his bowl of rice with his fork, sighs, and then sets both of them down. He hasn't eaten much for the past week, and you're noticing that he looks a bit thinner. The way he's been smoking seems like he's trying to escape from something instead of just to have fun. He's missed a couple days of class, and he's not coming by every night like he usually does. He just looks tired and sad, and all you want is to hug him and hold him until he feels better. He keeps insisting that nothing is wrong, but you don't buy it. You're not blind. You know that something is up.

"You gonna tell me what's eatin' ya?" you ask.

Ponyboy looks up at you and shrugs. "Just thinkin' is all."

"About what?"

"Not important. But I think I'm gonna cut math tomorrow."

"We're gonna get to play with the slide rules. You're gonna miss it?"

"Got more important things going on," he replies.

"Must be damn important," you reply. You know him well enough now. You can tell he's about to crack.

He sighs a long, shaking sigh, fishes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, and lights it. He takes a drag, and then sets it down in the ashtray. He rubs his eyes and sniffles.

"I'm just so damn tired," he says softly.

He picks his cigarette up, looks around to make sure you're alone, and takes another drag.

"Darry talks like he's moving on, like he's dealing with Soda disappearing. But all this week he's gotten so drunk …"

His cigarette burns out, and you wordlessly hand him a half-smoked joint that you found hidden behind the beer in the fridge. He gratefully takes it.

"I stayed up all night with him this week. Had to make sure he didn't drink himself to death. And he got damn close Wednesday night. Had to take him to the hospital to get his stomach pumped. Shit, I still don't know how I was able to drag him out to the car."

"Fuck, Pony…" you start.

"It's Soda's birthday tomorrow," he whispers. "He would've been twenty."

Then he shakes his head vigorously and sets the joint down. "No. _No. _He _is _twenty. Shit…"

He rubs his eyes again, and you know that he's crying but trying not to let you see.

"I'm sorry," you say after a minute of silence.

"Thanks," he replies.

"You … You wanna hang out tomorrow?" you ask. "I mean, if you wanna be alone, or be with Darry, or whatever, it's fine. I just…"

"Yes," he cuts you off. You're surprised at how quickly and assertively he made a decision, and you cock an eyebrow at him.

"Darry's gonna be at work or sleepin' off a hangover all day," he replies. "And I … I just don't wanna' be alone."

"Wanna' come over? Or I could meet you somewhere."

"I'll come over." His eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and you think that maybe, just _maybe_, they're also sparkling because of something else.

"Ok," you reply. "Cool."

* * *

Thoughts so far?


	5. Chapter 5

_Ponyboy_

You've known for a while that things are bad, but it really hit you last night, when you decided that lacing Darry's first drink with Quaaludes was better than letting him drink all night. Sure, it says 'do not mix with alcohol' in big letters on the bottle, but you know that people do it all the time. And although you did give him a lot of Quaaludes, he only had the one drink. You figured that would be better than him downing another bottle in one night. You can't afford to take him to get his stomach pumped again, and he's missed so much work that you know his job has to be in danger. So you knocked him out with the medicine early in the night, and you lightly dozed on the couch while he snored away in the armchair.

He wakes up on his own a little after six-thirty in the morning, looks around, and rubs his eyes. Then he turns to you and raises an eyebrow.

"What're you doin' out here?" he asks.

You shrug. "Couldn't sleep. You sleep alright?"

He nods and stretches. "I slept here all night? What time did I pass out?"

"Early. 'Round nine, maybe?"

"Shit."

You shrug. "You were tired, I guess."

"Guess so," he replies. Then he sighs heavily. "You goin' to class today?"

"Plannin' on it," you lie. "Wanna get out. But if you want me to stay in with you or somethin'…"

"No, no," he cuts you off. "I'm gonna go in to work, anyway. Was just wonderin' is all."

An awkward silence falls over the two of you. You're both thinking the same thing, but neither of you can bring yourselves to say it. Neither one of you wants to be the one to bring it up.

He finally breaks the silence, but it's to talk about an unrelated subject. "You doin' anything tonight? After class?"

"Might go see some friends for a bit. But I'll be home at a halfway decent hour."

Darry nods and forces himself out of the armchair. You roll off the couch, comb your hair, brush your teeth, and then head out the front door without telling him goodbye. It's a good two miles to the hippie house, but you want to walk. You need some time alone with your thoughts before you see Randy.

XXX

He opens the front door, and your heart skips a beat.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply. You cried for almost the whole walk over, and your voice is hoarse and your nose is stuffy.

"How you doin?" he asks.

You're exhausted, and it feels like there's a gaping hole in your chest. You sniffle. "It ain't my best day."

He takes a small step forward, and then he tentatively wraps his arms around you. You lean against him and wrap your own arms around his waist. He tightens his arms around you for a few quick seconds, and then pulls away. You reluctantly let your arms fall to your sides.

"Come on in," he says. "We got the place to ourselves right now."

You nod, quickly dab at your eyes, and follow him inside. You flop down on the closest couch, but Randy continues on into the small kitchen.

"Want some tea?" he calls.

You're not sure if he means dope or actual tea, but both sound good to you, and you'd be fine with either.

"Sure," you reply.

The old, raggedy quilt that's normally on Randy's bed is draped over the back of the couch. You love this quilt, and somehow, you know he brought it downstairs for you. It's soft and warm, and it's always the first thing you go for when you're at the hippie house and cold. You wrap yourself up in it like it's a cocoon, take a deep breath, and rest your eyes. It smells like him, and it's so cozy. Is this what it would feel like to be wrapped in his arms?

You're starting to drift when a teakettle whistle jars you out of your doze. Randy must've meant real tea instead of grass. You hear his footsteps start back toward the living room a few seconds later, but you don't make any move to sit up. You're comfortable, and you could lie here like this all day.

A record starts playing softly on the stereo. Joan Baez, maybe? You can't tell for sure because it's so quiet, but it's something folk. Then a hand brushes through your hair, and you hear someone chuckle.

"Comfy?" Randy asks.

"Mmm," you hum in reply.

He gently lifts your head up, sits down, and lets you use his lap as a pillow.

"You wanna talk about anything?" he asks after a minute.

_No, I just want to sleep. …And I want you to hold me so fucking bad._

"Ponyboy? You awake?"

_Do you know how long I've wanted to get this close to you? I've been through so much shit this week. Just let me enjoy this…_

"I swear, if I find out you're awake and fakin'… Shit, just don't hate me for this."

He sighs heavily, and then he's timidly rubbing your back.

Your heart flutters and then starts pounding. Your blood goes hot and starts to gather in your cheeks. There are butterflies in your stomach, and you're so deliriously happy that it's hard for you to stay still and keep pretending to be asleep. You're over the moon, and your pain and exhaustion are suddenly gone.

He's still rubbing your back, more confidently now, and a soft moan escapes your lips. He's being so sweet, so caring, and you _know_ that what he's doing goes beyond just friendship. He feels the same way. You know he does. He's falling for you just as hard as you're falling for him. God, _he feels the same way_.

You shift to keep your arm from going numb and sniffle because your nose is starting to run, and his hand drifts up from your back to tangle in your hair.

"Shh, Pony," he soothes. "You're OK."

You could die. You're so happy. You're so goddamn happy.

And then the front door bangs open.

God, not now. Any time but now. Not now. _Not now._

You normally love Randy's roommates. You get along great with them; and you always have a good time hanging out with them, smoking, talking, and listening to music. You've never had a problem with them hanging around while you were with Randy. Not until now.

But now they're all in your face, saying you don't look so good and asking what's wrong. You mutter something about smoking too much on an empty stomach, and then they're all talking at once again, rattling off their home remedies. You just want them to go away. Go back outside, leave the house, leave you and Randy alone again.

You were the happiest you'd been in weeks, months, hell, more than a year. And they fucking ruined it. You're shoved back into cruel reality, and the cold and aches take over your body again while the nagging, negative thoughts creep back into your mind. Your bottom lip starts to quiver, and you know that you've got to get out of here before you cry in front of everybody.

Randy's hand is suddenly on your shoulder.

"Think the best thing for ya is to get some more sleep," he says. "Let's go to my room for a bit, huh? I got homework to do anyway."

Son of a bitch. He's finally learned how to read your mind.

XXX

"You looked like a deer in headlights down there," Randy says.

_I was, and I'm still shaken up. I need you. Come hold me._

"They can be a lot to handle. 'Specially when you've just woken up."

Randy laughs. "Yeah. No shit."

Then silence falls over the two of you, even though you're mentally screaming at him to hold you or rub your back like he did downstairs. Him reading your mind must've been a one-time thing.

"Are you OK, Pony?" he finally asks. "Do you … Do you wanna' talk about anything?"

_My favorite brother vanished into thin air and might be dead. My other brother is pretending to be fine while he slowly drinks himself to death. I haven't slept more than a few hours this week. And I'm falling so hard for you._

"There's so much," you whisper. "I don't know where to start."

Your bottom lip quivers, you sniffle, and a tear spills from your eye and starts rolling down your face. It's followed by another, and then another.

You're about to wipe them away, but Randy beats you to it.

"Don't cry," he says softly. "It'll be OK. Please don't cry."

Wiping away your tears has turned into caressing your cheek, and he's still whispering, "don't cry" to you. There's a look in his eyes that you can't quite read. It's caring, sympathetic, but also something else. It almost looks like … hunger. Or lust.

You're suddenly aware that you've gotten so close that your noses are touching. Randy is still stroking your cheek, but he's not whispering to you any more. He's just breathing hard, eyebrow cocked and lips parted in anticipation.

Your lips meet, and you see stars.

"Pony…" Randy starts.

You shake your head, cutting him off. Again, he reads your mind.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"I think I have a guess."

You kiss him hard, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight while his hands trail up and down your back. You open your mouth a little and let his tongue slip inside, feeling and exploring the new space. You moan and fist your hands in his hair, and then he's leaning against you, trying to push you into the mattress. You go down without a fight. His body is so warm and strong, and you don't know why, but his weight on top of you is comforting. It makes you feel safe, content, like nothing bad can happen to you as long as he's got you.

Mouths move down to necks, kissing, feeling, and nibbling. Shirts come off, and hands join in as you continue to explore each other. You know it's sinful, and you know it's wrong. But at the same time, it feels so _right_.

You fooled around with a couple of girls before, back when you were still trying to convince yourself that you were straight, but it was nothing special. You didn't feel much. If anything, you just felt dirty and sick and even more confused when it was over.

But now Randy is nibbling and sucking on your neck while you run your hands along his lean, muscular chest, and it all feels so fucking good. Any lingering doubt you had is gone. You _definitely _aren't straight. You should be scared and disgusted and trying not to enjoy this, but it feels so good. It just feels _so good_. And, shit, you deserve this. After everything you've been through, you deserve this.

He's slowing down now, gently stroking your hair and kissing your cheeks, and you can't care about anything or anybody else but him. Screw society. Let them tell you you're going to hell. Let them lock you up and zap your brain with electricity or shoot you up with lithium. You don't care. It's worth it for this.

"Pony," he says softly.

"Randy."

He rolls off of you and pulls you close to his chest. His hands start to wander along your back again, and you let your eyes fall closed. This is what it feels like for him to hold you, and it's so much better than you could have ever imagined. You don't know the last time you felt so safe, warm, and content. The sound of his slowing breathing and heartbeat lull you to sleep.

* * *

So the first kiss scene happens differently than it did in Diplomat's Son, but this just worked for me. Just one of the differences in the two stories, I guess :)

This chapter was hard for me. It felt forced; it was hard to find the right words. Did it work for you guys?


	6. Chapter 6

_Ponyboy_

You wake up slow in his arms.

Just as you're starting to break through into consciousness, he kisses and soothes you back to sleep. You let this happen a few times before you stop giving in. You yawn and stretch and slowly open your eyes. Randy is lying next to you, smiling, and you're not convinced that you're actually awake. It seems like a good dream. A very, very good dream.

"Hey there, Rip Van Winkle," he says. "You have a good nap?"

"Hmmm," you hum in reply. You nuzzle his chest and close your eyes. You're suddenly not ready to wake up, not ready to leave, and you want to stay next to him in his bed forever.

You feel his laughter more than you hear it, and he gently kisses your forehead. "Still sleepy?"

"Am I even awake?" you reply.

"I've been asking myself the same thing."

"It's prudenter to dream."

"Dickinson?" he asks.

"God, you get me," you reply.

"_You_ get _me_," he breathes.

And then his lips are on yours again. His kisses aren't desperate and needy like they were when you were making out earlier. These kisses are gentle and sweet. He's kissing you the way you'd kiss a lover; the way you'd kiss somebody you've known and trusted for your whole life. It's the way you remember your father kissing your mother.

You can't believe it. You can't believe that it's _you_. It's _you_ that he's kissing like this. It's _you_ that he has feelings for, and _you _that he's holding like his life depends on it. How did you manage to find a guy like him? How did you get so damn lucky?

He pulls back and presses his forehead against yours, and you instantly miss the warmth of his mouth. But even though he's not kissing you any more, his arms stay tight around you.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you reply.

"You all right?"

"I am now."

He smiles and slightly shakes his head. "I don't believe this."

"_You_ don't believe it?"

"Shut up. You're a catch and you know it."

You don't know where the sudden surge of courage comes from, but you don't question it, and you growl, "_you_ shut up and kiss me."

He obliges. And, god, you don't think you'll ever get tired of the way his mouth tastes.

"What time is it?" you ask when you come up for air.

"Does it matter?" Randy whispers in your ear. Then he gives it a playful nip and starts kissing it, and what time it is doesn't matter any more. All that matters is him.

"I gotta … check on Darry," you manage. Randy is sucking on your neck now, and it's so hard to get the words out. And speaking isn't the only thing that's hard…

"He can wait a while longer," Randy says. His lips are barely brushing against yours, making you want more.

"Dunno. What time is it?"

Randy groans and rolls over to look at the clock. "It's eight-thirty. There, you happy?"

He doesn't wait for a response and goes right to attacking your mouth with kisses. You pull away and sigh heavily after a few minutes.

"I really should go."

He looks heartbroken. "I don't want you to."

_Shit, Randy. Don't do this to me_. "I don't want to either. I really, really don't."

He sighs heavily, pulls you close, and kisses your forehead. "But you've gotta, don't you?"

You reluctantly nod, and Randy kisses your forehead again.

"I'll drive you home."

XXX

He kills the headlights, shifts into neutral, and rolls up to the curb in front of your house. The lights inside the house are all off, and Darry's truck is in the driveway. Maybe you lucked out and he decided to turn in early.

Randy gives your hand a squeeze, and you turn to face him. He kisses you softly, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter as hard as ever.

"Wanna come in for a bit?" you ask. "Think Darry's already in bed."

He nods, and it looks enthusiastic. "Go see what's up. Let me know if it's safe."

You nod and climb out of the hippie bus and then start up the walkway to your house.

You quietly slip inside, making sure that the screen door doesn't slam behind you. You don't turn on any lights, choosing to wait a few minutes until your eyes adjust to the dark instead.

"Darry?" you say softly once your eyes have adjusted. "Darry?"

The couch and the armchair are both vacant. You creep into the kitchen, and then to the bathroom, and when both are empty, you ease the door to his bedroom open.

He's asleep, the covers gently rising and falling with his breaths. An empty tumbler sits on the nightstand, but he doesn't reek of liquor like he does after his worst nights. You figure that this is as good as it'll get. You're as safe as you can be.

You light some candles and an incense stick, pour two glasses of wine, and step out on the porch. You don't even have to motion toward the door; he gets the hint instantly.

XXX

He looks around and smirks once the two of you reach your bedroom.

"Candles? Wine? Christ, could you have made it more obvious that you're trying to seduce me?" he asks. But he keeps his voice low. He knows that waking Darry up is a very real possibility.

"Shut up," you reply. But you return the smirk. He sits down next to you on the bed; he's in the spot where Sodapop used to sleep.

The two of you sit next to each other in silence, sipping your wine, going in for gentle kisses, and jumping at every small sound that the house makes. You finally sigh and turn to him.

"When did you know?"

He shrugs. "Well, when I was five, I told my mom I thought girls were icky and asked if boys could marry other boys. Thought she'd beat me to death with the Bible. But I guess I never really outgrew that mindset. Can't remember ever bein' attracted to girls."

He drains his glass and cocks an eyebrow. "When did you?"

Before, you would've said that you didn't know. But tonight made things pretty damn clear. So you smirk and say, "today."

He laughs, pulls you close, and kisses you hard. You wish that it didn't have to end.

But it does, you look at each other, and sigh. You speak first.

"What're we gonna do, Randy?" you ask. "We can't exactly flaunt this. We can't kiss each other goodbye after class. Can't make out in the backyard of the hippie house. Can't hold hands at the movies. Can't…"

He cuts you off with a kiss. "I don't care," he says softly. "There's so much we can't do, but I don't care. We'll figure it out. Be together in secret like we did today. Act like we're just friends like we've been doing like we're in public. Shit, I don't care. I'm not losing you."

Your eyes tear up, and your heart flutters. You just want him to hold you and never let you go.

"I … I think that's the sweetest thing anybody's ever said to me."

He just smiles, kisses your forehead, and pulls you close.

"You still look sleepy, Pony," he says. "Get some rest."

His arms are warm and strong, and you feel safe lying next to him. You let yourself drift into a doze that turns into a deeper and deeper sleep.

You sleep through your alarm in the morning, missing your class, and the spot next to you is cold and empty when you wake up. But he's left you his jacket.

You shut off your alarm, wrap yourself up in his jacket, and deeply breathe in his scent. Sleep overtakes you again, and your dreams are filled with images of him.

* * *

Leave me some reviews? :)


	7. Chapter 7

_Randy_

You can't remember ever being in a relationship that felt so natural, so right.

There was always something off when you took out girls. It felt forced, and something inside always told you that things wouldn't work out. Hell, you dated Marcia for over a year, and you could hardly think of her as anything but a friend. You couldn't even consider sleeping with her, and the two of you hardly ever fooled around. Everything you told your friends that you did with her was a lie; and you couldn't imagine marrying her, settling down, and having kids like Bob talked about doing with Cherry Valance. And it wasn't even because you had your eyes on someone else. It was just that you couldn't do it. You just … couldn't.

But things are so easy with Ponyboy. You don't have to remind yourself to kiss him, or make mental notes about doing something sweet for him or getting him presents for no reason. You _want_ to kiss him, you _want_ to slip the love notes you wrote into his books for him to find later, and you _want_ to surprise him with a pack of cigarettes or a book whenever you can. And it doesn't bother you one bit that he can't afford to buy you things. He's always telling you that you don't need to get him gifts; just being with you is enough. And you love hearing that, but you also don't care. You just want to give him the world.

And it kills you that you can't give him more. You hate that you have to hide what you are. You hate that you can't hold hands as you walk from class to your car. You hate that you can't drape your arm around his shoulders at the movies, and you hate that you can't dance with him and kiss him at the bars. You see the way that he looks at the straight couples. There's a sadness and longing in his eyes, but also a hint of bitterness, and you know that he feels the way you do.

But you're doing the best that you can. You always give him a kiss as soon as you get to the car after class, and then you hold his hand all the way back to the house. When your roommates go out to parties on the weekend, you stay in with him, and the two of you cuddle up on the couch and watch TV. You never miss a chance to kiss him or hug him, even if you can only hold him for a few seconds. But it's not good enough. Nothing is good enough, and you always find yourself wishing that you could give him more.

You've never felt like this before, and you'll do anything to make him happy. You'll do anything to make sure he stays. God, you love him.

XXX

He's resting his head on your chest, basking in the afterglow of a makeout session that got very hot, very heavy, and very handsy, very fast. You hated pulling away from him, turning the kisses into cuddles, but you don't want things to move too fast. You don't want to do something that you'll both regret, and you've already gotten damn close more times than you can count.

"What do you want for Christmas?" you ask. You need something to distract you from how turned on you are, and it's the first thing that you can think of.

"A hippopotamus," he replies.

You smirk. "It'll eat you. What about some Tinker Toys?"

"Only a hippopotamus will do. 'Sides, they're vegetarians."

You smack him in the face with your pillow, and he starts laughing. He digs his fingers into your ribs, tickling you; you screech and tickle him back. The two of you play fight, tickling, screeching, and laughing, until you're out of breath. You smile at him and kiss his forehead. He smiles back at you, and then he's staring off into space.

"You ever done it with anyone, Randy?"

"Told you about Mary Ruth," you reply. "It didn't mean anything. Well, I guess it did. It made me realize I was gay, but I didn't have any feelings for her."

"No, I mean with a guy," he replies.

Your stomach does a backflip. "Have you?"

"I asked you first."

You sigh a long, heavy sigh. You know that he would've found out about this sooner or later. But you wish it could've been later. You're scared to death that this will scare him off.

"His name was Mike," you finally reply. "Fitting, I guess, because he looked like Micky Dolenz."

"He's the cutest Monkee. You've got good taste," Pony replies. But he still seems hurt.

"'Course I have good taste. I'm with you, aren't I?"

He blushes, smiles, and nuzzles at your chest. And you know that you're forgiven.

"I was wasted when he picked me up at the bar," you continue. "I saw him a few times after that, but I just … I couldn't stay. I was scared. I wasn't ready."

He cocks an eyebrow and looks at you, and you read his mind.

"And it fucking hurt. He said it'd feel good after a while, but guess we never got that far, 'cause it fucking hurt."

He kisses your neck and nips at your ear. "I don't want you to hurt."

You tighten your arms around him. "I don't want to hurt you, either."

You just hold each other for a few minutes, and then it clicks. You can usually read him like a book, and you're surprised that it took you so long.

"That's what you want for Christmas!" You feel bad for laughing, but you can't help it. "You want me to pop your cherry!"

He's blushing so hard that you're sure his face will burst into flames. But he's also trying to bury his face in your neck and hide, and you know that he's not too upset with you.

"Don't make it sound so vulgar," he says. His face is still buried in your neck, so his voice comes out muffled.

But he's so beautiful. You love him so much. And you know exactly what he needs to hear. You both blush as you mumble the poem into his ear, but neither one of you can hide how turned on you are.

"I'll be your Allen Ginsberg," you mumble.

"I'll be your Neal Cassady," he whispers back.

"Christmas?"

"Christmas."

* * *

So, obviously(?), they're talking about the Christmas classic _I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas_, which I do not claim any ownership to. And then later, they're talking about the Allen Ginsberg poem _Please Master_. Some say it's about Ginsberg's basically-lifelong partner Peter Orlovsky, but others think it's about an affair he had with Neal Cassady. Regardless, I don't own.

Leave me some feedback? :3


	8. Chapter 8

_Randy_

A knock on your bedroom door startles the two of you out of your heated makeout. He quickly covers himself with the quilt, and you take a few deep breaths and run your fingers through your hair. You open the door slightly, taking care to keep your lower half hidden.

It's Al, one of your roommates. He's holding a pipe and looking freaked out.

"Hey, man. I don't want to scare you, but you're at the front door. But you're old. It's you, from the future. I think you must have something really important to tell yourself, and it's freaking me out a bit."

The blood drains from your face, and your stomach drops. "He … I mean I … Downstairs?"

"Sittin' on the porch. Didn't wanna come inside; maybe it's a time travel thing. But hey, don't freak out. I'm sure it's nothin' bad."

"I'll be right down, Al," you reply. You close the door and turn to Ponyboy.

"Your father?" Pony asks.

You nod.

"You want me to come with you?"

You shake your head. "Might look suspicious. But if I'm not back in fifteen minutes, send help."

"Good luck."

"Thanks. I'm gonna need it."

XXX

You step out onto the porch, and your father gets up from the rickety chair he was sitting in. You stare at each other for a few seconds, and then he awkwardly extends his hand to you. You don't shake it.

"Randolph. It's been a long time," he says.

You nod. "Been a while."

"I trust you've been well?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Let's cut to the chase, dad. What're you doing here?"

He sighs heavily. "I'm here on behalf of your mother. She misses you, and she would appreciate it if you came to Christmas dinner."

"But not you. You don't miss me. You don't want to see me, and you'd be just fine if I stayed away."

He doesn't respond immediately, taking a minute to gather his thoughts.

"Frankly, what I want, Randolph, is for you to cut this shit out. I want you to take some goddamn pride in yourself again. I want you to cut your hair. I want you to stop cross-dressing, or whatever the hell it is you're doing in those ridiculous clothes, and stop being such an embarrassment to this family. You come from good stock, and it would do you well to act like it!"

"I come from good stock? You make me sound like some kind of animal."

"Well, you certainly seem to be living in a pigsty."

"And you wonder why I don't ever come home," you bite.

The two of you stand in silence, staring daggers at each other.

"I'm not enjoying this any more than you are," he finally says. "But it's for your mother. Put on something presentable, do _something_ with your hair, and just make an appearance for an hour or two."

"Tell her that I regretfully decline, but I send my regards," you reply.

"I won't speak to you at all," your father says. "You can pretend I'm not even there if that's what you need to do. And I'll give you fifty dollars once this is all over."

You really could use the money, but you'd never dream of taking it from him. You can't accept his charity. All you needed to hear was his promise that he'll leave you alone.

"Shall I bring anything?" you finally ask.

"Just, for the love of God, try to look presentable."

"Tell mother I look forward to seeing her," you reply. You turn on your heel, step inside, and slam the door in his face.

XXX

It was easily the worst Christmas of your life, and you haven't seen him in two days. You know that it won't be much longer. His brother leaves for work at eight in the morning, and you told him that you'd come over as soon as he left. But that's ten whole hours from now, and you can't wait that long. You need him.

So you walk all the way to his house. There's nobody on the street, and although it's a bit spooky, you're grateful for it. You know that his neighborhood gets rough at night, and you don't have a way to defend yourself if you're jumped.

The house looks dark when you get there, but you're still as quiet as possible as you sneak through the gate. Their front door is locked, but when you creep around to the back of the house, you notice that there's a light on in one of the bedrooms. You've only been in his house a handful of times, and you hope that you're remembering the layout correctly.

You softly tap on the window.

No response. You knock on the window again, louder this time, and a silhouette starts moving on the window shade. Then the shade flies up, and he's staring at you quizzically through the glass. He has the window open in a flash.

"Randy?" he asks. You can tell that he's confused, but also happy to see you.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," you say with a smirk. You hold your hand out to him; he takes it and helps you climb through the window.

He takes a step back and looks you up and down. You're suddenly very aware of the fact that you're still dressed up from your visit to your parents' house.

"You look … wow," he says.

You smirk. You do look pretty good. Your navy blue suit brings out your eyes, and your roommate Dolores put your hair into a ponytail that somehow looks both fashionable and masculine. But Ponyboy doesn't look half bad himself. He's only wearing a pair of boxers.

"You're lookin' pretty good yourself," you say.

"Yeah?" he asks.

You nod and pull him into a hug. "But I bet you'd look even better if you took those boxers off."

The best thing about his outfit is that he can't hide his excitement over what you're doing to him. And he's having quite an effect on you, too.

"What're you doing here?" he mumbles into your neck.

You sigh. You don't want to think about the day you had.

"I had a really shit day," you reply. "I had to see you."

He kisses you softly. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Hell, no. Not right now. I should be goin, I'm sure."

He's quiet for a few seconds, and then he says, "you don't have to go."

You raise your eyebrows.

"Darry's already asleep," he says. "It's late. Could lock the door."

"He won't get suspicious? I don't wanna get us caught."

"Sure he won't even notice. Even if he does, he won't think anything of it."

"You're sure?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm sure."

You're in no place to turn him down. You just smile, loosen your tie, and shrug off your jacket. He gets the hint, and he shyly smiles back at you. He pulls down the window shade and then crawls into bed. You're right behind him.

You've been this close and in bed before, but it was never like this. You're both stripped down to your underwear, you might as well have the house to yourselves, and the only light comes from the streetlamp outside- leaking in through a hole in the window shade. You don't know who starts it. All you know is that you're kissing, feeling each other up, and you're on top of him.

"Randy," he says softly.

"Pony," you whisper. You can just barely see in the dark room, but his eyes are clear as day. You both know, and you're both ready.

"You tell me to stop, and I'll stop," you murmur in his ear.

"Ok," he pants.

"I'll be gentle."

"I know."

You kiss him, trailing your kisses from his mouth down to his collarbone, and then back up his neck to his ear.

"I love you," you whisper in his ear.

His eyes tear up a little, but he's also smiling from ear to ear. "I love you, too."

* * *

Lots of dialogue. And maybe there will be a glimpse of what Randy's Christmas was like later ;)  
Reviews please? :)


	9. Chapter 9

_Ponyboy_

He's warm in your arms, and you feel safe and cozy in his. He's kissing your forehead and whispering sweet nothings to you, even though you're still asleep as far as he knows. One of his hands starts trailing along your spine, and you slowly open your eyes. You lock eyes with him, and his face breaks into a smile. You're smiling now, too.

"Morning, Neal," he says softly.

"Morning, Allen," you reply. "You have a good sleep?"

"Mmm," he hums, and tightens his arms around you. "Who could sleep?"

"Shit, what'd I do to keep you up all night?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "You're just too goddamn beautiful. Couldn't stop looking at you. Couldn't believe you're mine. Couldn't believe you let me."

"God, Randy," you whisper.

And then he's kissing you; softly, lovingly, and with all the tenderness in the world.

"Was it…" he starts. "Was I… Do you…"

His voice trails off, and he sighs heavily. "I tried so hard to be gentle."

"You were," you reassure him.

"It felt good?"

The truth is that it hurt like hell at first. But he took it slow, always giving you soft kisses, and whispering how much he loved you in your ear. When you cried, he kissed the tears off of your cheeks. You know that he really did do everything he could to make it good for you, to keep from hurting you too badly, and that alone is enough.

You didn't just lose your virginity last night, and you and Randy didn't just have sex. You made love. In every sense of the word, you made love. You've never felt so connected to another person, or so cared about. And so what if it hurt? Love hurts sometimes. Hell, you hurt every time you see a straight couple kiss in public, because you know that you and Randy will never be able to do the same. But Randy would never try to hurt you. He just wanted to show you how much he loved you. You both did. You just wanted to share your bodies, your souls, in the deepest, most intimate way. And you did, and it was so worth the pain.

"It doesn't matter," you reply. "All that matters is that it was with you."

He's smiling, but his eyes are also a little misty. He pulls you close and kisses your forehead.

"I wish it could've been with you," he says. "My first time with a guy, I mean. I realized something last night, Ponyboy. Mike didn't care about me. I thought he did, but he was just using me. We were only together when I was drunk, he didn't care if he was hurting me, I was just another conquest, and I just…"

You cut him off with a long, hard kiss.

"One of us had to know what we were doin'," you tease. And he smiles.

"I love you, Ponyboy," he says. "So much."

"I love you too, Randy," you say. Your vision blurs, and your voice cracks, but you're only crying because you're happy. "With all my heart."

And then your mouths meet. You're kissing, licking, sucking, feeling, and it's all so gentle and sweet. You feel so safe with him, and you know he feels the same. You don't ever want it to end. You just want to spend the rest of your life in his arms.

"You're OK?" he asks once you've broken the kiss.

You know what he means. "A little sore, but I'm OK."

He squeezes you tight, kisses your cheek, and then rolls out of bed.

"I'll bring you some Aspirins when I come back," he says. "But get comfortable for a bit. I'm gonna make you breakfast."

"Burn the house down is what you're gonna do," you reply. You know Randy can't cook.

"Think I can manage cereal and some orange juice," he says.

You sigh and wiggle into the warm space that he left behind.

"I'm not hungry," you say. "I'm not even hurtin' that bad. I just want you to stay."

"Just wanna do somethin' nice for you."

"Then come back to bed."

He smiles tiredly, shakes his head, and joins you in the bed.

"So clingy," he teases. "You're lucky I love you."

You sigh contentedly and rest your head on his chest. "I know it."

He kisses the top of your head, and one of his hands starts wandering along your back. You nuzzle his bare chest and kiss one of his nipples, eliciting a soft moan from him.

"You gonna tell me about your Christmas?" you ask.

He snorts. "Way to ruin the mood."

That's actually exactly what you were hoping for. You're too sore to try for another round just yet.

But after a short pause, he sighs heavily.

"It was just … weird," he starts. "I show up, and everybody is already there. They're all these high-society people, wearing their furs and their fancy suits. My sister got a fucking Tiffany necklace. My uncle gave me a glass of bourbon from a bottle that was over $200 like it was nothing."

"Ok, Jay Gatsby, then what?" you say. You hear the laughter rumble in his chest.

"Well, they all took turns taking shots at my hair. Said they were just kiddin' around, but they seemed awful serious. That shit's normal to them, too. Never let my cousin hear the end of it when she gained sixty pounds while she was pregnant."

He sighs heavily. "Then dinner started. Full four-fucking-course meal. Grandma and Grandpa went to New York last month, and Grandpa wouldn't shut up about how many _queers_ there are in the city. It's _infested with fags_, he said. _Whole part of town full of homos_. And he just seemed so disgusted, and everybody else there was agreeing with him. And I just wanted to stand up and say, 'guess what, Gramps? One of your grandkids is one of those deviants!' I just couldn't deal with it. Made some dumb excuse and left before the main course even came out."

"God, Randy. I'm sorry."

"It's over now."

"Wish I could've gone with you. Taken some of the pressure off. Given you some moral support."

He snorts. "I don't care what happens, Ponyboy. You are _never _meeting my family."

"I ain't expectin' you to show me off or tell them I'm your guy or anything. Just … Hell, you've met Darry."

He sighs heavily. "It's not that, Pony. They're just bad news. They're not good people. And I'm your boyfriend; it's my job to protect you."

You smile at him, and he gives you a soft kiss.

"I'll take care of you, baby," he mumbles into your neck. "Just wanna' protect you from them. From all the bad in the world."

He's so damn sweet; it almost makes you want to cry.

"What'd I do to deserve you?" you whisper.

"I could ask the same thing."

And then you're kissing again, gently caressing each other's cheeks and running your hands through each other's hair. He's running his hands along your chest, and you realize something. You pull away and press your forehead against his.

"Y'know," you purr. "We got the whole house to ourselves. Can be as loud as we want."

"You're not too sore?"

"I'll deal with it," you murmur. "Just need you; wanna' be close to you."

He smiles, and then he's on top of you, softly kissing you.

"I love you," he breathes in between kisses.

"I love you too. So much."

* * *

Aww. These two :3


End file.
